Chapter 9 - Bellucci’s Redemption
An hour later, the five of us—my parents, Grant, Owen, and I—walked through the heavy glass door of Bellucci’s Italian Restaurant.
Old Mateo looked up from behind the cash register, his bushy eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline as he spotted my parents walking in right behind Owen. For a second, a flicker of guarded skepticism crossed Mateo’s face, remembering the rumors of a fancy downtown steakhouse dinner from the week before.
Then my father walked straight up to the counter, pulled off his cap, and extended a large, calloused hand.
"Mateo," my father said loudly, so the whole dining room could hear. "My grandson turned ten last week, and we missed his party because we were foolish. I want to reserve your biggest table in the back corner by the Amalfi poster for every family dinner from now on. And put it on my tab."
Mateo stared at him for three seconds, measured the quiet, genuine humility in my father’s eyes, and then a massive, gap-toothed grin broke across his face.
"Ah, Walter! Now that is family business!" Mateo boomed, throwing his arms wide open. "Back corner table, right now! Extra garlic bread for the birthday boy, and two scoops of mint chocolate chip ice cream—on the house!"
We squeezed into our old familiar booth with the paper tablecloths and the crayons in metal soup cans.
My mother didn't complain once about the smell of garlic fry-oil or the checkered paper napkins. In fact, she picked up a purple crayon and started drawing a clumsy, smiling cartoon of a soccer ball right next to Owen’s plate, laughing when my father tried to copy it and made a lopsided mess.
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Grant caught my eye across the table, raised his water glass in a silent toast, and winked.
I smiled back, lifting my own glass, feeling the last lingering shadows of my old life completely dissolve into the warm, amber light of the restaurant.
